An ode to a girl I used to know, whose world was a gift all wrapped up with a pretty red bow. Who knew not pain nor sorrow and sin. Ready for this life she was destined to win.

An ode to a girl I used to know, whose family rules made a line she kept to a toe. Testing herself through ignorance and sin, learning to pick herself back up again.

An ode to a girl I used to know, who learned to love the sinners row. All wrapped up in a disorientating mist, it was the devil's lips she longed to kiss.

An ode to the girl I used to know, who continued along with the devil in tow, until one day instead of a kiss.... it was Death's angel that touched her lips. A secret sorrow she left unknown,a grave, she had wished, was her own.

An ode to a girl I used to know, who now lives so far from home, marching as one well oiled machine, hoping to pass through life, unseen. As a last stitch effort to stand apart, she only accomplished to break her parents hearts.

An ode to a girl I used to know, whose love was found in a secret best left alone. All I shall say is it shot her heart when her lover decided they were better apart.

An ode to a girl I used to know, whose families disappointment seemed to grow. A failure at love and life and smarts, trying to mend a shattered families heart.

An ode to a girl I used to know, who played Russian Roulette and lived to feel the survival guilt flow. She was the one who dared to live, after shooting so many in the heart again and again.

An ode to a girl I used to know, whose overdose seemed awfully close. Though tempting seemed, the pills may be, she continued on, with the weight of her life buckling her knees.

An ode to a girl I used to know, whose siblings left behind in the blow. And as her wounds smarted and her cuts began to sting, she gave her siblings the last gift she could bring. A freedom from her world of fear, a sacrifice to remain behind, here.

An ode to a girl I used to know, who was kicked out of her very home. Whom pain and sadness have tormented and torn apart, leaving her unsure if she still had a heart.

An ode to a girl I used to know, who walked this world all alone, who bore the scars that marred her skin, as she vowed to never, herself, love again.

An ode to a girl I know, who looks in the mirror, as if the reflection is not her own. All sunken eyes and cracking fears she lives and breaths but is no longer here. But a husk she remains, haunting her very own marred skin, wondering what it would be like to feel again...

An ode to a girl I have yet to know, who's future once shined brighter than any I have come to find, I know, because that future was once mine. now it is drifting, balanced by a drop of the hat, a slice of the knife, where nothing is planned or precise. All that she has is the hope of her fate, that maybe, some day, she will be free of her self inflicted chains of hate and fly free of this place, a chance to change her future, her fate.

This is an ode to my friends.For the ones I've loved since day onethe ones I have learnt to loveand for the ones I hate to love.

This is for my friend,for the one, I got drunk with first.We stole a litre bottle of cider and four beers then drank them in the park at midnight. This is an ode to my friend who cries at parties,who swears he will die alone.This is for my friend who laughs at every joke,the **** and comedian but shakes when no one is looking.

This is an ode to my friends, for the one who's grandma is dying but theystill, manage to draw on a smile and present a joke. This is for my friend who has depression,Or the friend who has anxiety,and asks me to speak for her at restaurants,

This is an ode to my friends,who is finally taking control of her body after being trapped in the wrong one. For the friend who is scared to leave the housewhen it's icy because he might slip and hurt his ***.For the friend, I fancied till I was sixteen,and even though it's been years my lips still burn whenI look at her.

This is an ode to my friends who leave me out of conversations.who have inside jokes they sprout when I'm around This is for the ones that went to the movies to see the film they knew I was dying to see. This is an ode to my friend,who broke her leg whilst dancing in her favourite musical,and the part was given to someone else.This is for the friend whose mother died when she was 12but she remains the strongest person ever.

This is an ode to those who forget I'm their friend,who ignore me when they're upset,who tell me daily that they love me,who cry at Disney movies,who laugh at videos of past times,who I hate that I adore,who I cry over,because I can't make them happy anymore.

This is an ode to my friends,for the one who is so self-conscious, he wears baggy jumpers to hide his stomach. This is an ode to my friend who has scary parents, for the friends who made a pyramid out of stones and raised a nation,for the friends who try their hardest and still achieve nothing,for my friends the world has seemingly forgotten,

This is an Ode to my friends,the ones I know I will die loving,they give me cups of tea with two sugars when I'm having a bad episode,for the ones that cry when they hear a certain song, because it reminds them of when I tried to off myself in the toilet,for the one that has never had a kiss,for the one who refuses to get married.

This is an ode to my friends,the family I chose,the ones that send me stupid messages at four am,then question why I'm awake so late.For the friend that gets blackout drunk,for the one with weak knees,who, when she laughs, falls to the ground in a fit of giggles,for the friends, I will marry, loving.Speak now or forever hold your peace,

An ode to my friends,who I love more than anything,as we collapse through the stars,

Ode to the belt And how nice it never feltOde to the fist That knew just how to make my stomach twistOde to the bruisesWhich left no excusesOde to my jaw For that punch it never quite sawOde to my ears All those nights when I could hear my brothers' tearsOde to my dadAnd every time he's ever gotten madOde to the world And every obstacle its hurled Ode to odeAnd how well it never quite bode

She sat on a park bench crying at the moonBecause that's what wolves doAnd wolves were a lot closer to her than familyHe lied under a park benchAnd spoke to the antsBecause ants were more like friends than any friends he'd ever hadAnd once upon a timeThese two were children full of innocenceFull of vigor and life ready for anythingLike anything was the everything they did everydayAnd this is an ode to lost innocenceBut I'm not sure he's lostWe may have just forgotten where to find himOr maybe he forgot where he livesAnd right now he's wandering the streetsFinding refuge in anyone willing to dream when the sun is outOur children are seeing things like they live in the third worldThey're spending their days providingFor families their fathers left themWatching gun shots count for the censusSeeing thriving turn in to survivingAnd surviving turning in to not even worth it anymoreOur mothers can't afford gifts for ChristmasAnd sometimes they can't even buy their kids imagination for breakfastWe have kids knowing their **** handsBefore their clock handsSurprising their math teachersWith their extraordinary knowledge of ounces and gramsInnocence has been gone for a whileSo I put up missing posters on the same telephone polesThose once innocent children sell themselves onI place fliers in the newspapersThe teenagers are rolling their **** inI'm searching for him everywhereAnd I'm starting to believe he's nowhereThen I see an old manWho's been through his share of this warLooking at a painting with eyes I once hadAdmiring the image, not the brush strokesLoving the feeling it provokesNot the conflict it's trying to resolveAnd I see in him the innocence that's lostBut it doesn't stay longHis cell phone rings and he hunches overAs if no matter who it is, it's the real worldAnd the weight of that is crushing himSo I crawl under the same park benchAnd pray to the same moonThe young woman cried toAnd I ask the man in the moon to save usTo use his huge eyes to find the innocence And put it back in talking to antsAnd howling at the moonConvince them to leave the straight jacketsIn empty padded roomsAnd let the children we wereWe areWe never got the chance to beRun free This is an ode to lost innocenceTo lighters and cigarettes in the lost and foundTo Anti Depressants in the nurses officeAnd Ex-Lax in the girls bathroomThey used to have four square and hopscotch courtsNow the only chalk on sidewalks is outlining a corpseExplaining to our kids about pregnancy and STD'sBefore we teach them the infield fly ruleThis is an ode to the innocence that ran awayBecause maybe he's not lost at allMaybe he's just sick and tired of being ripped out of peopleOf being ***** out of young girlsBeaten out of young childrenShot out of young boysMaybe innocence just got tired of being taken for grantedAbout not being loved like poets used to love himYou don't see his name in too many hip hop songsAnd I haven't heard a poem in a while to call his praiseMaybe he left to go try and find somewhereHe can be loved like he used to beHe could be courting aliensOr wooing dolphinsBecause it's clear we don't care about him anymoreThat innocence got lost without us noticingSo why would we notice if he came backSo why should he come backThis is an ode innocence's last nameChildrenThis is an ode to lost innocenceThe cops came and took her awayAnd before her head was tucked into the carShe howled one last time at the moonAnd from my balcony as loud as my lungs could let meI howled backAnd the next day I crawled under a park bench and talked to antsA week later I found myself howling at the moonBecause it seemed the whole blockCaught a case of insomnia the day they arrested the wolf ladyThis is an ode to lost innocence Please come home, our children need you

A collection of poems by me is available on Amazon Where She Left Me - Michael DeVoehttp://goo.gl/5x3Tae

Ode to the tedium,Ode to the insanity,Ode to the laborious,Ode to the depravity,

Repetitive cycles force the passage of time, and tentative disciples are forced to be kind,Mandatory interactions are the business of the day,But thats the path we must traverse to receive our weekly pay,We are herded in like cattle under the watchful gaze of them,we are treated as if machines, when we are fervent that we're men,The daily struggle and the constant grind,Are what we're told assures us that we are alive,

Ode to the perpetual,Ode to the necessity,Ode to the resentful,Ode to our identity.

an ode to what I am not convenient or skinny organized or welcoming an ode to what you beg of me all of these things I cannot be,I will not be not ever forever is a long time to spend bending your image of me into something that fits in your walletan ode to what I am not gentle, rose colored china sunday mornings with herbal teayour hope or step in your 12 to get upa beam of light at the edge of blacknessan ode to what I do not possess healing powers like some 2,000 year old manyou pray to every day and beg I do the same patience for another human who whats to change who and what I am not so I can play the part I did not even audition for an ode to what I am takingback, my lifeall of me, front and center of the floor

This may seem ode (odd)It does not come bold Maybe you are not in the modeBut it will always come to your humble abodeWhen it is most absent it can appear in your lymph nodesAnd you will be like Ode my goshCheers for jokes Cheers for odes

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see I shalt not wander;My love for thee is clear and again;And one intact, and whole, and untorn;And one civil, and pure, and unburnt;Thou art my light, my cold fire and warm ice.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see t'at my love is chaste;For whenst betrayed, it betrays not;For it cuts not our story short;For it stays with thee still, in blood and flesh;For it thinks of you yet, in its wake and rest.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love is genuine;For it shoulders guilt on its own;A guilt t'at comes from loving thee;For loving you is what makes it live.

Such ****** and passion,intricate pictures we cannot imagineDevoid of self, utter surrenderplunge into the streams of your soulFinding the hot wires,forming strings so we can find homeNot having a memory of what it means to be aloneOde, to you, Love I say

It is not so much the words posted, but the context condensedHow you unwrap the figures textual 'til they make senseIt is not so much the touching and cuddlingbut the invisible electricty of extrasensory connectingIt is not so much the breath on my neck as you reach in to kiss meBut the etheric messages of wind telling me you miss meWe have had a try to attempt to twist this styleTo find the spiraling curls in proseTo dissect the detailed aerial strips of the scent of a roseOde, to you, Love I say

Poetry is foreverpottery forms artifacts of clay but do they stay?This sweet ode paints a picture that will remain in the drawers of eternity...I cannot lie, it has been something of a frailtymy pursuits of love have quieted my frivolityI have since been calm, playing an instrument imaginaryWaiting for a tone that will help me find my tuneYou are that song that ends too soonOde, to you, Love I say

Just echoes and epiphanies voices and mellow claps singing into me:Ode, to you, Love I sayon this day a heart will not breakbut will be strong and find its way.

King Khety is blinking madlyHaruspex has left him ominous oracleSinuhe is on his return, fugitive no moreSinuhe brings with him enemy’s daughterNot prize, Nefru his wife and Libyan loreSinuhe from slavery came, poet she did adore

Egyptian tombs do tell in detailHieroglyphic tales, this juncture of perilKhety not King, but Sinuhe’s noble brotherKnows true King come to claim throneSinuhe the nobler, knows a life of none otherThan slave sold by Odious, the step-mother

Made her son King, though he did imploreKhety saw insanity and for what, he was in storeKhety remembers his Great Father’s words“The heart of someone who listens to his temperIs doomed to follow the stink of camel herdsBetter to let heart fly upon sky, as do birds”

Yet by years tormented, Khety became undoneMore like his mother and even more snivelingThan the Odious one, so he did as he was toldIncessant dribbling marked a life for himHe minded his words lest he knew he’d be soldMother’s high priest Abhorus was bitter and cold

Sinuhe’s struggles were unknown to King KhetyYears of near starvation and wearisome laborMade Sinuhe the better man, as he did never forgetAssurances of his noblest Father, Pharaoh Merikare Virtue ascribed, Sinuhe kept valor in each trial metFurthermore, his noblest task still to come as of yet

}II{“Numidian Queen”

Nefru, Numidian Queen to Land of LibyaRecalls young slave Sinuhe’s hostility to captivityHis intelligence overcoming, who once would be KingOf Egypt had not violent arm but ferocious mindUsing wit to overcome adversity and words he did singTo free his self of internment and all oddity it did bring

Nefru looks upon loyal husband SinuheIt is an arduous journey this man has takenHer commitment be bound now by ivory ringLoyalty to this man before all forsakenIt is spring, and amongst abundant life come dead thingsFledgling birds first flight failed or so siblings did fling

Now swept into his pilgrimage, Nefru perceivesAll adversity Sinuhe did overcome so noblyTo her, he is chukar, partridge of rare plumageIt is to the ground, which this bird be boundNever reaching sky, low brush be its’ *******Though its’ song give to her heart an anlage

Freedom from slavery, is Sinuhe’s triumphVindication of crown be the mark of new flightHe prays to Horus Behudety, Winged Sun GodNefru knows of her husband’s will and mightShe gifts to him her father’s pinioned golden rodScepter of enslaver Mehru, and his feathered shod

It was not of great agreement by MehruShould his daughter Nefru marry a slave?Much less to son of Merikare, an arch enemyYet he be so brave, impressions of Sinuhe’s strength Be made so to change, very nature Sinuhe’s destinySo much so, Mehru did lament in Merikare’s elegy

So it came to be, a slave marries QueenSinuhe and Nefru’s love broke all patternsSuch a love to win hearts of, Gods and Goddess’ unseenWho rule other worlds and all rings of SaturnHistory had never known affection so purely cleanGatherings from far off fields came to witness such glean

}III{“Haruspex And Detritus”

Haruspex, soothsayer speaks in half-truthsKing Khety believes only small contingentBe on way to Byblos, presently approaching QedemLittle does he know, armies of Elephant in towMasses of feathered and golden archer’s stemBlessed by breath of Bat, Goddess and her phlegm

Detritus, Animal Man, hired scout to King KhetyPossesses claws and hair of lion, his home SerengetiAnimal Man’s mane is thrashed in thorns and rubbleSmells of cat ***** but has nose that knows muchSuch why Detritus be tolerated, though be much troubleHaruspex twists tale of tailed man, speaks of him double

Calls him lazy, shiftless, yet Haruspex be cryptic messDetritus be banal yes, but true to Khety none the lessKnew his father well, Merikare be his masterIt was always Queen Odious, Detritus distrustedKnowing her demonic betrayal and Egypt’s disasterShe kept him in gypsum cave, scratching alabaster

Kindness had left this Kingdom sometime agoWhen Odious and Abhorus overthrew ruleMerikare Moon Pharaoh mummy cry from tombSinuhe ripped from his side by AbhorusHis funeral a very mockery and Detritus’ doomHaruspex made way from Libya, eyes mucous rheum

Planted by Mehru, Haruspex be sent through desertKing of Libya be wise, sent this oracle as disguiseNot soothsayer at all but spy of oppositionKing Mehru knew upon Moon Pharaoh’s deathPeace upon land would not soon come to positionQuickly he sent Haruspex, strangest magician

Detritus knew by the first smell of himHaruspex came from earth west, not with bestIntentions to natural order of land and skyAnd this test of two egos be quite perplexedWith each other and another reason whyThis brawny epic riled through years gone by

}IV{“Ode ‘O’ Odious”

Motioning her battalions, priests and beastsEvil Queen who overthrow, joins Abhorus’ feastBeldams be this clergy, **** all about OdiousSnapping of rabbits heads in cacophony of bloodPlunking chalices of malice’s, sacrifices melodiousAll in dark chamber halls in depth’s commodious

Stretching of intestine to fine tune harpButchers waylay innards with daggers sharpMawkish music be Odious’ fameConcavity’s entrance a perilous scarpPassers-by enticed by bergamot oil’s flameFall to their death to be eaten by dame

Death be her power to innocence’s painQueen Odious oblivious to her own dangerSeems unstoppable to submissive subjugatesSpinning her terror, cackle calls to maidensFem ferocious, how ‘O’ Odious undulatesCasualties collected in long hundredweights

Probity of her high priest be noneAbhorus puppets Odious and will be doneWith her second rare blue water lilies run outThe Nile produces this flower of intoxicationExtinction of it is of all certainty, no doubtNamed after her, O Odious flora beguiles lout

Ode ‘O’ Odious, Ode ‘O’ OdiousIt is Evil Sorceress and midnight blue flowerPower of it be all in her high flighty head She misuses its’ tincture to her own final hourHarvesting it foolishly, nearly till it is deadAnd when it is, it will be to all worlds’ dread

}V{ “Oasis In Iaa”

Sinuhe receives word elephants parchedWater need be found, arduous trek campaignedNefru never witness such worry, Sinuhe’s faceOx tail be split to drain nourishment from beastsNo water for miles, no sea birds upon sky to traceSinuhe prays, “Montu, God of War find oasis to race!”

At dawn Sinuhe strands his bandTakes his most devoted men of armsBhaktu, Parsi, Rhaktu, follow their LordEach having faith in man and his wisdomEastward they find Syrian tribe in hordeThey are welcomed, none need draw sword

Master of Syrian tribe Abu SefaUnderstands who Sinuhe is and wasOrders falconers to find Nefru and throngApprises Sinuhe of oasis beyond hummocksAll are soon joined together in wine and songOasis found, Iaa, fruited land and lagoon long

Khety is warned of revelry in IaaSends legions Egyptian arms, by order OdiousAnubis, jackal head God given zebra sacrifice Detritus employed for battle with spearsCopper shields, mediocrity will not sufficeAll swords be sharpened by order thrice

Lifeblood battle of Egypt ensuesSinuhe taken off guard in Iaa, Elephant screams to be heard for milesBhaktu cut down, Rhaktu not foundParsi’s archers never saw such trialsFrom lagoons come seething crocodiles

}VI{ Twist Of Fate

Rensi was chosen by Abhorus to speak for KhetyAs High Priest, Abhorus did most doling of employsThis proxy Rensi though, be mockery of KingHis speech more stammered than Khety’s noiseGrossly disfigured as well, soundings as mice singRensi aware of this, musters all dignity he may bring

This not so illustrious disquisition mutedBy torrent winds and torrential liquid compoundsTefnut’s tears plunk upon all, turning mud bloodLooking out from his great house Khety embroiledBares soul to Sobek-Re, Crocodile God; Sun and CrudSobek-Re answers prayer, suspending flash flood

In Iaa, as gore of battle ensues, fate loseAs twist of tale find new bemuse and worlds infuseDetritus sees his lost master Sinuhe encroaching perilThis recognition swells an emotion deep and confuseDetritus bent in memories flash reacts nobly not feralWith a roar to be heard over all, clamor become sterile

Sounds of battle cease and gaze of majestySinuhe seeing Detritus is overcome by sensibilityTwo old beloved friends stare upon each otherDragging swords behind each move to indemnityEmbrace of each other; secures allegiance anotherSinuhe kisses feet of Detritus; calls him “brother”

Odious in lair drinks tinctures blue water liliesAbhorus her advisor suggests only more intoxicantsKhety is shrilling at sight of this deceptive lureHaruspex makes prophesy of Detritus’ betrayalKhety sends hunters to trace Animal Man’s spoorAbhorus finds more legions of archers to procure

Leaving Iaa and moving toward MemphisDetritus is fitted by Nefru’s maidens new armorEmbroidered with gold, a striped khat is made to adornDetritus is humbled by Sinuhe and Nefru’s giftsHis body is perfumed and oiled; his mane then shornBeholden to the true King of Egypt, Detritus is sworn

Two men of different lands, both once slavesOvercome their adversities and rise upon sunSinuhe and Detritus’ bond is legitimately nobleWearing of these worlds bare them new providenceSeemingly this union appears fortuitous globalKeeping steadfast of Abhorus’s archers now mobile

In Sakkara, south of Memphis come tempestRaining arrows as if raindrops, Sinuhe’s challengeDetritus’ valor finds reckoning to his last willDefending Sinuhe, Detritus falls to cumulatingBy strength this virtue witnessed, Sinuhe rise stillThrowing down legions of archers, making his ****

Abhorus, Odious, and Khety with no troops leftSurrender to Sinuhe upon his return to MemphisOdious drinks last vials blue lily tincture, expiresAbhorus struck dead by hand of Khety in resolveKhety bows to Sinuhe and his Queen as requiresKing Sinuhe , Queen Nefru read parchments and fliers

In honor of great Detritus and his noble deedsCommissioned is greatest sculpture Animal ManDuring its’ long construction, most joyful jinksSong and dance to honor a great warrior trueEach artisan so proud to have heritage to linksOf Animal Man, Detritus, now known as Sphinx

This is my adaptation of The Tale Of Sinuhe. It is the oldest known work of Egyptian literature. This epic poem was written by me with the intent of creating a puppet opera. I hope to collaborate with other poets, musicians, artists and puppeteers to see this come to life. Between each chorus should be arias which embellish the plot and theme. If you may be interested in working on this piece, please let me know via private message. I hope to make it a collaborative work.

"The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge. They have no speech, they use no words; no sound is heard from them. Yet their voice goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world." ~ Psalm 19:1-4a

3/4/2019This is an ode to the things I'm too afraid to sayThis is an ode to the “I love you” The one that echoes in my heart and fills it with hopeThe one that despite my trying, always gets caught in my throatThe one that I mean but I forget the language I speak inThis is an ode to the “I want to hold your hand” The same one that dances on my fingertips in prayerThe same one that glides along the palm of my hand into theirsThe same one that is never asked because vulnerability does not fit into my gloveThis is an ode to the “just hold me”The request that steadies two heart beats to one momentThe request that holds the sunset in between two peopleThe request that comes from an unexpected originThis is an ode to the “I'm scared”The confession that changes the view from one eyeThe confession that I can't say because it might hurtThe confession that spilled the truth of dreaded heartacheThis is an ode to “please don't leave”The plea that breaks a heart when it's not metThe plea that comes with the strings attached, pulling on a heartThe plea that is a promise never kept because everyone will leave eventuallyThis is an ode to the things I wanted to sayBut never had the courage to say them

ode to a manthe keeper of my dreams,melody of my soul,the wind beneath my wings.ode to a manbeautiful as can bewhispers to my heartonly beauty he can see.ode to a manwho's heart he let me takeused him and beat himtill there was nothing left to break.ode to a manwho loved me anyway,though my only heart wondered,his love did truly stay.ode to a manwho finally gave up.i loved him more than anythingbut his love was never enough....

Still must I hear?—shall hoarse FITZGERALD bawlHis creaking couplets in a tavern hall,And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch ReviewsShould dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse?Prepare for rhyme—I’ll publish, right or wrong:Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song.

Oh! Nature’s noblest gift—my grey goose-quill!Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,That mighty instrument of little men!The pen! foredoomed to aid the mental throesOf brains that labour, big with Verse or Prose;Though Nymphs forsake, and Critics may deride,The Lover’s solace, and the Author’s pride.What Wits! what Poets dost thou daily raise!How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!Condemned at length to be forgotten quite,With all the pages which ’twas thine to write.But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!Once laid aside, but now assumed again,Our task complete, like Hamet’s shall be free;Though spurned by others, yet beloved by me:Then let us soar to-day; no common theme,No Eastern vision, no distempered dreamInspires—our path, though full of thorns, is plain;Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

When Vice triumphant holds her sov’reign sway,Obey’d by all who nought beside obey;When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,Bedecks her cap with bells of every Clime;When knaves and fools combined o’er all prevail,And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale;E’en then the boldest start from public sneers,Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears,More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,And shrink from Ridicule, though not from Law.

Such is the force of Wit! I but not belongTo me the arrows of satiric song;The royal vices of our age demandA keener weapon, and a mightier hand.Still there are follies, e’en for me to chase,And yield at least amusement in the race:Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,The cry is up, and scribblers are my game:Speed, Pegasus!—ye strains of great and small,Ode! Epic! Elegy!—have at you all!I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a timeI poured along the town a flood of rhyme,A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame;I printed—older children do the same.’Tis pleasant, sure, to see one’s name in print;A Book’s a Book, altho’ there’s nothing in’t.Not that a Title’s sounding charm can saveOr scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:This LAMB must own, since his patrician nameFailed to preserve the spurious Farce from shame.No matter, GEORGE continues still to write,Tho’ now the name is veiled from public sight.Moved by the great example, I pursueThe self-same road, but make my own review:Not seek great JEFFREY’S, yet like him will beSelf-constituted Judge of Poesy.

A man must serve his time to every tradeSave Censure—Critics all are ready made.Take hackneyed jokes from MILLER, got by rote,With just enough of learning to misquote;A man well skilled to find, or forge a fault;A turn for punning—call it Attic salt;To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet,His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:Fear not to lie,’twill seem a sharper hit;Shrink not from blasphemy, ’twill pass for wit;Care not for feeling—pass your proper jest,And stand a Critic, hated yet caress’d.

And shall we own such judgment? no—as soonSeek roses in December—ice in June;Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,Believe a woman or an epitaph,Or any other thing that’s false, beforeYou trust in Critics, who themselves are sore;Or yield one single thought to be misledBy JEFFREY’S heart, or LAMB’S Boeotian head.To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,Combined usurpers on the Throne of Taste;To these, when Authors bend in humble awe,And hail their voice as Truth, their word as Law;While these are Censors, ’twould be sin to spare;While such are Critics, why should I forbear?But yet, so near all modern worthies run,’Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun;Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,Our Bards and Censors are so much alike.Then should you ask me, why I venture o’erThe path which POPE and GIFFORD trod before;If not yet sickened, you can still proceed;Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.“But hold!” exclaims a friend,—”here’s some neglect:This—that—and t’other line seem incorrect.”What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got,And careless Dryden—”Aye, but Pye has not:”—Indeed!—’tis granted, faith!—but what care I?Better to err with POPE, than shine with PYE.

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate daysIgnoble themes obtained mistaken praise,When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied,No fabled Graces, flourished side by side,From the same fount their inspiration drew,And, reared by Taste, bloomed fairer as they grew.Then, in this happy Isle, a POPE’S pure strainSought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain;A polished nation’s praise aspired to claim,And raised the people’s, as the poet’s fame.Like him great DRYDEN poured the tide of song,In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong.Then CONGREVE’S scenes could cheer, or OTWAY’S melt;For Nature then an English audience felt—But why these names, or greater still, retrace,When all to feebler Bards resign their place?Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast,When taste and reason with those times are past.Now look around, and turn each trifling page,Survey the precious works that please the age;This truth at least let Satire’s self allow,No dearth of Bards can be complained of now.The loaded Press beneath her labour groans,And Printers’ devils shake their weary bones;While SOUTHEY’S Epics cram the creaking shelves,And LITTLE’S Lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves.Thus saith the Preacher: “Nought beneath the sunIs new,” yet still from change to change we run.What varied wonders tempt us as they pass!The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas,In turns appear, to make the ****** stare,Till the swoln bubble bursts—and all is air!Nor less new schools of Poetry arise,Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize:O’er Taste awhile these Pseudo-bards prevail;Each country Book-club bows the knee to Baal,And, hurling lawful Genius from the throne,Erects a shrine and idol of its own;Some leaden calf—but whom it matters not,From soaring SOUTHEY, down to groveling STOTT.

Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew,For notice eager, pass in long review:Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace,And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race;Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode;And Tales of Terror jostle on the road;Immeasurable measures move along;For simpering Folly loves a varied song,To strange, mysterious Dulness still the friend,Admires the strain she cannot comprehend.Thus Lays of Minstrels—may they be the last!—On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast.While mountain spirits prate to river sprites,That dames may listen to the sound at nights;And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner’s broodDecoy young Border-nobles through the wood,And skip at every step, Lord knows how high,And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why;While high-born ladies in their magic cell,Forbidding Knights to read who cannot spell,Despatch a courier to a wizard’s grave,And fight with honest men to shield a knave.

Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan,The golden-crested haughty Marmion,Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight,Not quite a Felon, yet but half a Knight.The gibbet or the field prepared to grace;A mighty mixture of the great and base.And think’st thou, SCOTT! by vain conceit perchance,On public taste to foist thy stale romance,Though MURRAY with his MILLER may combineTo yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line?No! when the sons of song descend to trade,Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade,Let such forego the poet’s sacred name,Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame:Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain!And sadly gaze on Gold they cannot gain!Such be their meed, such still the just rewardOf prostituted Muse and hireling bard!For this we spurn Apollo’s venal son,And bid a long “good night to Marmion.”

These are the themes that claim our plaudits now;These are the Bards to whom the Muse must bow;While MILTON, DRYDEN, POPE, alike forgot,Resign their hallowed Bays to WALTER SCOTT.

The time has been, when yet the Muse was young,When HOMER swept the lyre, and MARO sung,An Epic scarce ten centuries could claim,While awe-struck nations hailed the magic name:The work of each immortal Bard appearsThe single wonder of a thousand years.Empires have mouldered from the face of earth,Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth,Without the glory such a strain can give,As even in ruin bids the language live.Not so with us, though minor Bards, content,On one great work a life of labour spent:With eagle pinion soaring to the skies,Behold the Ballad-monger SOUTHEY rise!To him let CAMOËNS, MILTON, TASSO yield,Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field.First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance,The scourge of England and the boast of France!Though burnt by wicked BEDFORD for a witch,Behold her statue placed in Glory’s niche;Her fetters burst, and just released from prison,A ****** Phoenix from her ashes risen.Next see tremendous Thalaba come on,Arabia’s monstrous, wild, and wond’rous son;Domdaniel’s dread destroyer, who o’erthrewMore mad magicians than the world e’er knew.Immortal Hero! all thy foes o’ercome,For ever reign—the rival of Tom Thumb!Since startled Metre fled before thy face,Well wert thou doomed the last of all thy race!Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence,Illustrious conqueror of common sense!Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails,Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales;Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do,More old than Mandeville’s, and not so true.Oh, SOUTHEY! SOUTHEY! cease thy varied song!A bard may chaunt too often and too long:As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare!A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear.But if, in spite of all the world can say,Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way;If still in Berkeley-Ballads most uncivil,Thou wilt devote old women to the devil,The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue:“God help thee,” SOUTHEY, and thy readers too.

Next comes the dull disciple of thy school,That mild apostate from poetic rule,The simple WORDSWORTH, framer of a layAs soft as evening in his favourite May,Who warns his friend “to shake off toil and trouble,And quit his books, for fear of growing double;”Who, both by precept and example, showsThat prose is verse, and verse is merely prose;Convincing all, by demonstration plain,Poetic souls delight in prose insane;And Christmas stories tortured into rhymeContain the essence of the true sublime.Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy,The idiot mother of “an idiot Boy;”A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way,And, like his bard, confounded night with daySo close on each pathetic part he dwells,And each adventure so sublimely tells,That all who view the “idiot in his glory”Conceive the Bard the hero of the story.

Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed here,To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear?Though themes of innocence amuse him best,Yet still Obscurity’s a welcome guest.If Inspiration should her aid refuseTo him who takes a Pixy for a muse,Yet none in lofty numbers can surpassThe bard who soars to elegize an ***:So well the subject suits his noble mind,He brays, the Laureate of the long-eared kind.

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choirOf virgins melting, not to Vesta’s fire,With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flushedStrikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hushed?’Tis LITTLE! young Catullus of his day,As sweet, but as immoral, in his Lay!Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just,Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.Pure is the flame which o’er her altar burns;From grosser incense with disgust she turnsYet kind to youth, this expiation o’er,She bids thee “mend thy line, and sin no more.”

Behold—Ye Tarts!—one moment spare the text!—HAYLEY’S last work, and worst—until his next;Whether he spin poor couplets into plays,Or **** the dead with purgatorial praise,His style in youth or age is still the same,For ever feeble and for ever tame.Triumphant first see “Temper’s Triumphs” shine!At least I’m sure they triumphed over mine.Of “Music’s Triumphs,” all who read may swearThat luckless Music never triumph’d there.

Moravians, rise! bestow some meet rewardOn dull devotion—Lo! the Sabbath Bard,Sepulchral GRAHAME, pours his notes sublimeIn mangled prose, nor e’en aspires to rhyme;Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke,And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch;And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms,Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms.

Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings”A thousand visions of a thousand things,And shows, still whimpering thro’ threescore of years,The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers.And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles!Thou first, great oracle of tender souls?Whether them sing’st with equal ease, and grief,The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf;Whether thy muse most lamentably tellsWhat merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells,Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friendIn every chime that jingled from Ostend;Ah! how much juster were thy Muse’s hap,If to thy bells thou would’st but add a cap!Delightful BOWLES! still blessing and still blest,All love thy strain, but children like it best.’Tis thine, with gentle LITTLE’S moral song,To soothe the mania of the amorous throng!With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears,Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years:But in her teens thy whining powers are vain;She quits poor BOWLES for LITTLE’S purer strain.Now to soft themes thou scornest to confineThe lofty numbers of a harp like thine;“Awake a louder and a loftier strain,”Such as none heard before, or will again!Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood,Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud,By more or less, are sung in every book,From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook.Nor this alone—but, pausing on the road,The Bard sighs forth a gentle episode,And gravely tells—attend, each beauteous Miss!—When first Madeira trembled to a kiss.Bowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell,Stick to thy Sonnets, Man!—at least they sell.But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe,Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe:If ‘chance some bard, though once by dunces feared,Now, prone in dust, can only be revered;If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first,Have foiled the best of critics, needs the worst,Do thou essay: each fault, each failing scan;The first of poets

To the PF rooms of our third year:The storage room turned gigantic garbage can and dressing room (maybe because ours keep being stolen)The exploding socket causing sparks to fly (and us to fly away from it), andThe amazing “alambre” lock; who knows who installed (as if that could keep us away).The earthquake resistant rooms would be missed.

To the New High School Building of our last years:The kicked door (not our fault!), and cancerous blinds (like hairs falling after chemo),The jigsaw floor (not sure if better than broken floorboards),The “Halayan 2012”, andThe mind-boggling “no key needed” lockers.

The UTMT with its fair share of mango sentences,The old guidance office now turned “tambayan”, andThe Computer lab with its fragile yellow chairs and bruised bums.

Ode to magic,ode to life, little by little we all say goodnight.Open the box to find your dismay,innocence is merely an illusion they say.

I think not,The fiery embers in a dragon's gold eye,the brilliant blue in a indigo dye.The light might be bright,but the shadows are brighter,come all ye faithful and bring me a lighter.Find War and find Famine,bring them to heal.Look for death and Pollution,make them deal. A little magic can go a long way,the broken and fallen know where they lay.

Ode to the trickster,Ode to the fool,ever protected by the honest ghoul.A bit of salt over the shoulder,a bit of luck to be bolder.Over the rainbow, and through the woods,promise to all it will be good.Some truth for the youth,and some lies for the elder,a life without love, or some steel with no welder.to be dishonest, to be a slave,ode to the magic we gave.

You have been with me from the start softHard, never bothered which one you were When I was young at heart.

I used to pull you my second brain, little soft Then long and hard,as I grew, you grew with Me a friend that never left. Only in the cold I Wondered where you are.

The years did pass and hair you grew, where Once I had pulled, now you just went hard. Embarrassed I was as always hard around The girls, some laughed while others played With it spitting at them when excitedly hard.

Age moved on my friend for life still with me Still getting hard but when I wanted you no More embarrassment on my face at random hard.

My second brain, getting wasted each day, never Unclean as cheesy smell I do not want as girls wouldRun a far.

We played in the wetness we have come so far letting The children out in the damp park. My wife screamed Harder deeper my god your big I love your hardness Up me and the children were excited out of the umbrella They went a bit to far.

You have been with me through the soft and the Hard, got me in trouble, now three children laterI must end your spitting but you can still go hard.

***** your my friend to the end when we had no One a palm and a video was are night in, then softlyYou went as to sleep in my palm, from the beginning Through the soft and the hard.

What new element before us unborn in nature? Is there a new thing under the Sun?At last inquisitive Whitman a modern epic, detonative, Scientific themeFirst penned unmindful by Doctor Seaborg with poison- ous hand, named for Death's planet through the sea beyond Uranuswhose chthonic ore fathers this magma-teared Lord of Hades, Sire of avenging Furies, billionaire Hell- King worshipped oncewith black sheep throats cut, priests's face averted from underground mysteries in single temple at Eleusis,Spring-green Persephone nuptialed to his inevitable Shade, Demeter mother of asphodel weeping dew,her daughter stored in salty caverns under white snow, black hail, grey winter rain or Polar ice, immemor- able seasons beforeFish flew in Heaven, before a Ram died by the starry bush, before the Bull stamped sky and earthor Twins inscribed their memories in clay or Crab'd floodwashed memory from the skull, or Lion sniffed the lilac breeze in Eden--Before the Great Year began turning its twelve signs, ere constellations wheeled for twenty-four thousand sunny yearsslowly round their axis in Sagittarius, one hundred sixty-seven thousand times returning to this night

The Bar surveys Plutonian history from midnight lit with Mercury Vapor streetlamps till in dawn's early lighthe contemplates a tranquil politic spaced out between Nations' thought-forms proliferating bureaucratic& horrific arm'd, Satanic industries projected sudden with Five Hundred Billion Dollar Strengtharound the world same time this text is set in Boulder, Colorado before front range of Rocky Mountainstwelve miles north of Rocky Flats Nuclear Facility in United States of North America, Western Hemi- sphereof planet Earth six months and fourteen days around our Solar System in a Spiral Galaxythe local year after Dominion of the last God nineteen hundred seventy eightCompleted as yellow hazed dawn clouds brighten East, Denver city white belowBlue sky transparent rising empty deep & spacious to a morning star high over the balcony above some autos sat with wheels to curb downhill from Flatiron's jagged pine ridge,sunlit mountain meadows sloped to rust-red sandstone cliffs above brick townhouse roofsas sparrows waked whistling through Marine Street's summer green leafed trees.

III

This ode to you O Poets and Orators to come, you father Whitman as I join your side, you Congress and American people,you present meditators, spiritual friends & teachers, you O Master of the Diamond Arts,Take this wheel of syllables in hand, these vowels and consonants to breath's endtake this inhalation of black poison to your heart, breath out this blessing from your breast on our creation forests cities oceans deserts rocky flats and mountains in the Ten Directions pacify with exhalation,enrich this Plutonian Ode to explode its empty thunder through earthen thought-worldsMagnetize this howl with heartless compassion, destroy this mountain of Plutonium with ordinary mind and body speech,thus empower this Mind-guard spirit gone out, gone out, gone beyond, gone beyond me, Wake space, so Ah!

Ode to the man that sails the seas, He is the captain of his vessel and his crew looks up to him.He’s been on the ocean for years and years, he doesn’t know what his home looks like nor the love of his life.He looks over the vast ocean trying to find land but there is none to be seen.His hope starts to fade and his joy begins being laid.Laid out for fate to take over.His spirit weakens as he begins to think about his love and his life.What has become of the man we don’t know, but as the time goes by many tell his story.His story lives on in the hearts of all men and women.It’s just how you look at the story and think,Think about how this man lived.Did he live like a king?Did he live like the poor?We shall never know for he has passed before he came home.So ode to the man that sails the seas,His life and legacy will live on forever more.And ode to the one that he loved for he shall never see that person again until she dies and ascends to the heavens.They were parted but then in the end, found each other once again.So ode to the two lovers that once lived.For they shall live forever on the other side and once they meet, they will never part again.Never again for they are at an eternal rest.

All you have to offer me is broken Englishbut what you get in return is a broken heart!"Hi cute pic u me friend?" you ping me randomly;I am sorry dude,my picture didn't respond!

Not just you,but all the guys from your clanhave a typical dressing style that I can note from your photos.A smug face,bright colored clothes,unkempt hair;cigarette burnt lips and alcohol shot eyes!

Don't judge me, I am just sharing my observationbut I appreciate your perseverance of sending multiple messages!"Hey u","Reply and expect* me","Don't put scene^","Fraandship#??","Change new pic"and all I could think of is "Not happening bro!!"

Wondering why I wrote this ode to you?!You are a hero man! An unsung hero in your own world!When science and technology advances,when countries and continents fight and make upall you can think of is this random girl who is ignoring you!Talk about goal-oriented!!

You have a dumpy old computer with an internet connection and a Facebook accountand you want to have girls who you don't even know;You are more ambitious than Shakespeare's Brutus!You get irritated looks from all the girls you stalk,Yet you are unaffected as you never get to know that!!

I envy your spirit, I envy your hard-work!!Burning the midnight oil to get ignored by girls you don't even know!Though you stalk this much, in reality you are shy to even talk!You are a mystery, a dark knight I might say!!

Whatever anyone says, I know you wont give up!!You are a big challenge for all those privacy setting developers,you creep and crawl through the web so much and stillyou always remain -A random stalker!!

on a crisp, clean morning in the fall of 2008, i was happy. i walked to class, textbooks in hand. I could almost feel the earth shifting underneath my boots. I was ready to showcase my new haircut, reaveal my new and improved self to the world.I'll never forget when the handsome, bright eyed boy who sat behind me in first period told me thatmy hair wasn't supposed to be short.I am a girl, after all. You see, from the very beginning, I was taught that having a ****** made me "just a girl". Made me just a maid. just a cook. just a someday wife and mother. just a dainty, pink ribbon. just a punchline.just an orifice,thisis an ode to the parts of methat no soul has ever truly desired to understand.this is working just as hard as a man.this is ******* with the lights on,assuming my position,stepping away from the kitchen.this is burning my "big girl *******" and going commando, instead. this is scrubbing his DNA off of my body and reclaiming it. this is creating and birthing new life,a generation of girls who aren'tjust girls.When you exist in a world where you are instructed to keep your mouth shut, your strongest desire is to open it, as wide as a cavern. Here, where we are told that wethink too much,feel too much,love too much,we long to be enough.this is being enough.this is learning to love myself.this is finding comfort in my body,despite all of the glass shards i find myself plucking from it.this is loving myself intoan ******, so heavy, that it makes me feellike a ******is the most profound thing a person can have.